


Pitch Black

by Original_Cypher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Distress, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/Original_Cypher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Being trapped like this, in his own body, is the most terrifying thing that ever happened to him. "</p>
<p>Stiles never expected to die like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitch Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zosofi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zosofi/gifts).



> My first (finsihed) stab at a Sterek fic. 
> 
> I hadn't watched any Teen Wolf episodes two weeks ago, and my obssessive muse has just latched onto that pairing and won't let me sleep.
> 
> I'm guessing if I manage to focus enough on one to finish it, there are more to come.
> 
> Let me know what you think?

 

Having ADHD means two things. One, there's always at least four or five trains of thoughts going on at the same time in Stiles mind, one of which momentarily screeches over the other ones, sometimes he juggles two. The other, is that he's... his dad says restless. He flails a lot. He's always moving.

Being trapped like this, in his own body, is the most terrifying thing that ever happened to him. And since it's the last. Not the lastest. The _last_. He knows it's the last. He guesses it will just be the most terrifying that _has_ ever happened to him.

He knows it's the end when he realizes he can't feel the cold anymore. And boy, it is cold. So cold it burned him from the inside out.

It's an interesting concept, the idea that his eyes are wide open, yet everything is black. It's something Stiles would probably have enjoyed contemplating but never planned on living. Then again, this is it, his brain is shutting down, one sensory experience after another. So his stare ahead, eyes unseeing and faces mortality.

He's too young for that. Mortality. And he'd still be too young if it was his _first_ time.

He tries to flail again. Because panic does that, makes him flail. Which is good. It's movement. It's life.

Maybe he feels his pinkie twitch. Maybe.

He hopes, as he goes, the others are going to be okay.

God, Dad.

He wishes he could cry.

Or blink.

He wishes he could stay to keep Scott on the smart path when he just can't see the path. He wishes he could get to see if he was right and one day Lydia will be Senator. She would _rule_ the fuck out of a state. He wishes he could go back in time and not be busy when Danny offered to take him to that Drag show and not have postponed. He wishes... he wishes he lived old enough to see what a smile looks like on Derek's face.

He can feel the adrenaline feebly shooting through his system, trying to revive him. But it's over. It's too late. Even as he feels it, his body doesn't respond.

God, why does dying has to happen at the worst moments?

And why does it have to take so long, too?!

It's funny how the world narrows, suddenly. Focus entirely one one thing at a time, one thought.

_I'm dying._

Everything is floating away, out of reach. It's like running in water, and suddenly it's harder, because the bottom's slipped out somehow and you're sinking into the abyss.

He can even feel the terror itself loose its grip on him.

It's actually peaceful now.

Quiet.

His heart is beating slow and faint.

Like a lullaby.

After all, maybe dark is good.

At least it'll be restful.

That'll be a hell of a change of pace.

And then... movement. And pain. Oh, god, the _agony_.

And just when he thinks he might explode from it, it kicks up ten notches.

Everything goes from pitch black to bright white. Molten lava is poured from his inside and flames lick up his chest, his throat and coming out form his mouth. His eyes. Everything.

He's shaking. Arching off in awkward angles and, again, absolutely no control.

He feels like his eyes are leaking out of his skull, melted. It's searing into his brain and he wishes he could scream. When his body follows the instinct it quakes and everything's _worse_.

He's being pulled apart.

Fuck, what if this is what Hell's like?

His heart rate skyrockets and he screams with his whole body instead.

He didn't deserve this! He's 18 and a virgin! He was planning on doing many many naughty things one day that would maybe land him there depending on who you ask, but...

He's being stabbed in the chest.

By something sharp. And in flames.

He can feel his body. The pain... it's still there, but it takes the shape of his body. He can feel... well, he can feel where he hurts.

Yay.

Someone is yelling at him.

He can't make out the words, but that voice...

Wait. Derek's here?

He's in Hell with Derek?

That's... No, that can't be right.

He forgets how to think again as pain shoots through him, somehow, sharper than before. It burns less, but now he can feel all the tiny little shards of metaphorical glass coming up his trachea. Or at least, he thinks they're metaphorical.

Hey, look at that, maybe he's starting to see. Derek is shaking him. He looks less frowny when he's all blurry like that. But it's not very nice of him to make him-...

He vomits more water onto his own face.

Great.

Drowning. Definitely going off his suicide possibilities list.

A hand is massaging his neck. So that he coughs up more.

Then everything is pushed back down and it _hurts_. Then, why-...?

Oh. Derek's giving him CPR.

In, and out. Makes sense. Also, ow. Because: water.

He curls up on his side briefly and doesn't even have the strength to push the water outwards. He just lets it leak out of him.

This part looks way quicker in movies.

“God, Stiles. Please, be-...” Derek trails off when Stiles blinks up at him. “Stiles?!”

Stiles hacks up more water, nods feebly.

God, it's cold out here. Oh, hey, he can actually feel that he's cold and wet. Wet, pshh... More like _soaked_.

“ _Jesus_.” Derek hisses. Yes, Stiles agrees. That was a close one. Lets not do that again. “You okay?”

Stiles coughs. This time it's dry. “Peachy.”

“God. I told you, don't _do_ shit like that!”

“Like getting kidnapped by harpies and thrown out in the sky over rivers? Aw, man. I love that crap.” His head spins. Too much talking at once. This needs more oxygen. Derek glowers. “You fished me out.” Stiles points out diplomatically. His chest is heaving and burning and he might pass out, he would love to avoid getting beat up by an angry werewolf to top it all off.

“You never let _me_ drown either.” Derek shrugs. “It's a thing.”

“Oh, a _thing_.”

Its such an uncharacteristic phrase for Derek.

Stiles coughs and shivers in the same movement. It's not sexy. It does not _feel_ sexy, either. “We spend way too much time together.” The end is neigh if Derek starts talking like him.

The werewolf drags him further up his legs. He's kneeling, so Stiles is now almost sitting up. And his hair is caught in what he's pretty sure is Derek's belt loop, or the teeth of his jacket's zipper. He can't hold that against him, though, the guy just saved his life.

In, and out. The breathing thing, he's starting to get the hang of it again. The pain seems to ebb away, albeit very slowly, and it makes him envision that sometimes in the next year, it will stop being excruciating.

“You okay?”

Stiles coughs, but nods. He grabs around for purchase.

“Shh... Don't move.” Derek says, it's... well, it's not _gentle_. Stiles' not sure he's capable of _that_ , but it's a contained annoyance that borders on soothing. Like something you would use with someone doing something that annoys you, but they can't really be blamed for it. Like a dog at Scott's clinic that's making his injury worse because he doesn't understand that they trying to patch him up so he shies away. And it's funny. It's the first time Stiles' used the dog metaphor on himself. “I can hear the ambulance come in. They'll kick my ass if I let you up.” Derek says, forearm resting heavy on Stiles' shoulder.

Okay.

Stiles is perfectly fine with that plan. He doesn't feel like he has the energy anyway. Ambulance. Never getting up again.

Just breathing. He's never gonna overlook the luxury that it is, ever again.

A shiver overtakes him. Damn rivers.

He must be getting better though, his brain is running wild again.

He might live, after all.

“Your mouth was on mine like, two seconds ago, right? Just to be clear.”

“ _Yes_ , Stiles.” Derek sounds annoyed, like what he means to say is 'you're welcome, douchebag'.

Stiles almost slaps himself in the face when he reaches up with uncoordinated movements to push his hair back and blows the droplets that have gathered on his upper lip away.

“God, this isn't how I imagined it happening.”

His voice is raw and scratchy. Drowning and coughing water back up will do that to you, he imagines. Which means, oops, he said that out loud.

Derek's grip readjusts on his sodden sweater and the ambulance comes in, sirens blaring – Stiles swears they're actually _inside_ his skull – and lights flashing all around. Now he wishes he was blind again.

“Me neither.” Derek says quietly, eyes on the paramedics jumping out of the back.

Stiles looks up at him, and thinks. Well, it's not that cold tonight, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I also stumbled upon Superhero, by Family Force 5 while editing this fic. (Check out their song Zombie, it's awesome. ^^) I think it makes a pretty good soundtrack for them. It's funny how both of them are each other's superhero. 
> 
> +++
> 
> Dedicated to zosofi, because apparently I'm a junkie for her work now. This is nowhere near as good, or as long, but... credit where credit's due...


End file.
